


waiting for home to respawn beneath the sunset sun

by Illusioneery (Arkee)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Dealing With Loss In Questionable Ways, Dealing With Trauma In Unhealthy Ways Overall, I Wanted It To Be Crackfic And Yet Here We Are, Implied Barret Wallace/Tifa Lockhart, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Morally Questionable Character, No Plans We Go Into It Like Zack Against The Shinra Army, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29208984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkee/pseuds/Illusioneery
Summary: A sinner walks into a church to confess his sins. But before he can leave to commit some more, another sinner walks in as well. And this is the story of how they meet and what they do with that.
Relationships: Angeal Hewley/Genesis Rhapsodos, Genesis Rhapsodos & Cloud Strife, Sephiroth/Cloud Strife
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	1. two sinners in the broken church

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started writing this on a whim and don't quite know where I want it to really go just yet. I have a vague idea, though!  
> And I don't have an update schedule on this. Things come when they come.  
> So please bear with me if you're diving into this. Thanks in advance if you do! I hope it'll be a good ride.

Seventy-two days.

It had been that many since he entered that abandoned church and found all that was left of those days long lost stabbed among the flowers, unguarded.

Seventy-two and yet, his breath still caught in his throat whenever he took the first step inside, finding the sword still there and the lake of holy water taking over most of the place.

Every time, it was almost a cruel mockery. A thought at the back of his mind, pestering him. Words he never said. Feelings he never properly expressed. Ocean blue eyes nowhere to be found for reassurance that it was alright, that the timing only happened to be unfortunate. That Hollander had sold a revenge plan on empty promises and they bit into it out of desperation, like hungry wolves.

If only they had the holy water. The cure at his feet.

If only he had seen the signs of the collapsing mind instead of selling out a monster narrative.

If only he hadn't been so reckless and stopped to take in his own name falling out of those concerned lips.

If only.

He would never be going to that church so often if only they had that cure, that miraculous solution from the beginning.

But it just so happened that the Goddess punished the sinners and the product of their sins alike.

And Genesis was both of those things.

"I'm home," he said aloud, as though he was just coming back from the local market with groceries.

_ It should be alright. For I'm home once more. For the stars above us allowed me to come back to you. _

_ To keep all the promises I made, before I departed into the long journey once more. _

_ I'm home, at last. _

However, no one responded.

Not the flowers, the vines, the water lilies. Not the cleansing waters. Not the skies making themselves known with the warm hues of sunsetting light invading the place through the broken ceiling.

Not that blade, forever resting in its metal cold emptiness.

So Genesis just did his usual thing; flying to the altar to settle down, his back against the large sword. His own left forgotten on a broken pew by the entrance.

He closed his eyes and took in a breath, letting out a whisper.

"I said I would stop trying but I've failed once again, my friend. Sorry to disappoint you. Again."

It was silly, really. That he would go to that church and sit down there to burden the sword with his confessions. That he had nothing else to offer but that and attempt after failed attempt at bringing back someone who had wanted to go, to rid himself of sin.

“What else am I supposed to do, Angeal?” He asked, “What else now that Shinra’s no more and those brats from Deepground are dealt with?”

He supposed he could go back to Banora one more time. What remained of it, that was. He could start again, slowly, from a humble, new beginning. Pick some dumbapples off the grounds and trees. Try to ignore the memories of a dark haired youth running all over the place with him, beneath and between those trees.

He could hit his head somewhere, hard enough to forget it all.

It could be nice, Genesis thought. To start an orchard on a broken land, knowing no better, and coming up with a good juice recipe again, on pure accident. It would take a few years for him to be properly established, not to mention the randomness of the production, but he had the time. Gaia knew he had  _ all _ the time available.

Maybe by the time he was settled down in his little corner, the planet would decide to let Angeal be reborn, grow into a fine young man and come join him in his juicy shenanigans.

But that meant Angeal would inevitably age and leave him alone with his dumbapples and chocobos once again. (Because of course, his orchard plans had evolved into farming plans and chocobos were the next useful thing to food and drinks.) And Genesis would have to constantly wait for him to return, hoping that Angeal wouldn’t just grow into someone who aspired to become a doctor or something else more stable and useful than growing dumbapples, tending to bird mounts and keeping crops.

“Do you think I could make as much money on juice as my family did? Not that they were really my family to begin with… But you know what I mean, don’t you? I know you do.”

The sword was now warm against his back. Not due to itself, but due to Genesis having his very alive, warm body against the blade.

But he could pretend it wasn’t his fault this time.

He could pretend that it hadn’t been a year since the Deepground bullshit.

He could pretend, for a few moments, that it was Angeal’s warm back against his, as they shared a moment of peace before Sephiroth was done with that pesky meeting.

He  _ tried _ to pretend.

Mostly because it was better than focusing on a farm he would have to build from the ground up. Better than focusing on his reality. It kept him afloat, preventing another war, another incident.

Kept his mind from his numerous failures.

But the silence was deafening and the little breeze making its way inside the church, causing ripples on the water’s surface, did him no favors.

He broke the pretense. Shattered the illusion and his own heart.

“I found an almost perfect vessel for you, yesterday. Found him collapsed on the road. But he wasn’t tall enough. Or maybe life hadn’t left him properly yet. But he had the same beard. And the same crease between his eyebrows. I’m sure you would have felt at home. If you wanted to.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Honor had probably followed Angeal into the Lifestream. And Genesis just knew that what he had been trying to do was far from being an honorable thing. But he was a desperate man. And if he had to harvest a thousand bodies to raise one angered Angeal back to life just to scold him for his sins, he would do it.

The planet had cursed him already anyway. Condemned him to a life of no death.

Even with the scolding, someone had to take pity on the sinner, right?

And maybe, after that was done with, they really could build a farm—

Genesis stopped that line of thought. Or any other thought for that matter. He opened his eyes and stayed alert, though his Red Rapier was too far to reach quickly. Ah, well. He still had his materia on his person.

A voice, coming from the outside.

“I’m home,” it called out in obviously pretended sweetness, followed by a snorted giggle, “not like there’s anyone home, anyway.”

The person opened the doors a touch more and walked into the place, distracted, carrying a bag of supplies. Spikes of blond hair that seemed familiar for some reason Genesis couldn’t really place within his degradation messed memories.

They stopped when they saw Genesis sitting there, freezing in place at the sight of a long coat, big dark wing and long hair.

The calculating part of his mind told him that wouldn’t be a good vessel for Angeal’s spirit. Too small, too baby faced, despite apparently carrying a weapon on their back. A lot like a chocobo. Not dying and ready to vacate their body.

But that was the dark part which he didn’t let strangers see.

“Welcome home,” he said instead, with carefully displayed sweetness, “should I make you tea or coffee?”


	2. black wing, long hair, long coat

He thought it would all be over after defeating Sephiroth.

Well, in a way, it really had been.

The people suffering from geostigma had been cured and he had come to understand that those friends long gone didn’t blame him for their fates. Jenova was also eliminated from the world, as far as he knew about it. The Planet was safe to heal itself in peace.

And sure, maybe he was still a shitty friend. But he was trying, now. Not running away anymore. Picking up his calls instead of letting them go to voicemail whenever he could. Picking up far more work relatively close to home, so he could be in good company for dinner instead of having a takeout again at a random place for Gaia knew how many times it had been at his worst.

Tifa had appreciated his effort.

She didn’t know how much effort it actually felt like for him, though. But Cloud always had been bad about sharing too much of his feelings and, despite her insistence, even Tifa had her limits about poking him in regards to those things. She  _ did _ poke, because only watching as he spiraled into drinking in the past eventually caused her to lash out at him, out of frustration and a concern that had Cloud building his walls higher and thicker and somewhere away from her, where he wouldn’t be such a burden.

If she poked too much, now that he was keeping only a garden fence around himself, he would have to tell her things she wouldn’t like to hear. And he would have to put up the walls again. Go somewhere unknown not to be found, again.

So she wouldn’t know that he thought of Kadaj dying in his arms, sometimes.

And because she didn’t need to know that he went back after that day to look for a black feather, which he promptly shoved into his pocket after Lady Luck granted him that wish.

She would very much dislike the thought of him, now that the dust had settled and he had accepted that he wasn’t blamed by his late friends, blaming himself for not doing more for someone who had essentially ruined their lives. And she wouldn’t cast him out, Cloud knew it, but the crimson eyes which stared at him with pity from time to time would lock onto him with a disgust he didn’t want to see, once she knew.

Tifa would never understand. Of that, he was certain.

And it wasn’t as if he didn’t bear hatred, regarding the things that happened to them. Regarding Aerith’s death. All the manipulation and stabbing. The  _ cold-hot-blazing _ of a blade sliding in far too close to his heart for comfort. Their hometown burning to the ground, haunting his mind over and over again. All the things he couldn’t forgive. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have an automatic reaction to anything or anyone who looked far too much like Sephiroth.

But now that things were over — that he  _ thought _ they were over — Cloud understood things a little better.

He had two years to think about it, after all.

Two years to research a bit more, to the best of his ability.

Enough time for it to hit him that Sephiroth had no one but Shinra, back then.

That, at best, maybe he had Zack. But not nearly enough of him to prevent the things that happened. Not enough of anyone for a week, and Gaia, they should've poked at him further than they did. At least to check what was really in those books and put the man to sleep.

Though, maybe they  _ had _ provided him with food and sleep. Cloud didn't quite know, didn't really remember.

He barely had the image of a desperate man in his mind, making his way through a rotten manor; the specific details of which had all been lost to time.

But still, he thought that he could've done more.

That maybe, deep down, Sephiroth only came back time and time again because no one had done enough for him.  _ He _ hadn't done enough for Sephiroth to just get some rest after the kind of life he had. That, in some way, it was his fault and Cloud deserved that for not trying hard enough.

So Cloud went to Nibelheim and put up a gravestone in a safe place close to the old reactor. Which had been a task easier described than done, given all the local wildlife and the mental weight of the task itself.

He left flowers behind, and thought that was the best he could do. That it was enough.

He thought it would all be over, then.

But, well. It had been two years since he fought Sephiroth. And two years before that fight, Cloud... also had been fighting Sephiroth.

His mind raced with thoughts about that fact that he would rather not share.

When he went home, Cloud put up a false smile and pretended that his undisclosed business was done with. That it was finally over. That it was alright to play with the Wallaces’ kids a little bit; to play the good uncle figure he was supposed to be in that family.

Maybe if he pretended enough, it would really be over. Maybe he could move on and become happy.

But, somehow, he made the mistake of going to the church.

Not that his going to the church was, by itself, a mistake. Someone had to take care of the old Buster and he felt that it  _ had _ to be him, even if Zack never blamed him nor asked him to keep that part of his memory well preserved. It helped him cope with the guilt, even if just a little.

But the sight inside, aside from the water, the flowers and the sword, was most likely something he shouldn’t be seeing, for his own good.

“Welcome home,” the stranger greeted.

_ There’s a black wing, _ his mind registered, instead.

“Should I make you tea or coffee?”

A tease.

_ Long hair, long coat, the eerily similar kind of boots. _

Cloud froze there for a concerning long while.  _ Not silver, not black. _ That color was—

The color of flames.

_ (Nibelheim lit ablaze—) _

It was an irrational response, really. That couldn’t be Sephiroth. It was clearly someone different. Remnants aside, Sephiroth always tried to show up as himself, just so Cloud knew it was him. Just so he could torture him with the sight of himself alone. But at the moment, all Cloud saw was long hair, long coat and black wing.

And he had the main blade of the Fusion Swords on his back.

Maybe it was just a poor combination of fire and gasoline that made him let go of his supplies and dash towards the stranger with his sword up and ready for the kill. Maybe it was the unconscious thought of someone violating that sacred place, somehow.

Regardless of what it had been, the stranger shielded himself with the very sword Cloud intended to take care of and shot a Firaga to his face.


End file.
